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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760271">Haikyuu Whumptober 2020!</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuromantic/pseuds/kuromantic'>kuromantic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Codependency, Crying, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Overdosing, Restraints, Self-Harm, Separation Anxiety, Sickfic, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships, Vomiting, Whump, Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:27:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,897</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760271</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuromantic/pseuds/kuromantic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Broken hearts, broken bones. </p><p>It’s the season of whump again, where your favourite characters will be subject to treatment they won’t enjoy, but perhaps you will. </p><p>Welcome back to the world of whump.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>115</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Bokuto: Waking Up Restrained</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Content warnings: blood, minor character death, kidnapping, violence</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Drip, drip, drip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Bokuto’s eyes crack open, he notices the distinct sound of liquid hitting solid. His gaze shifts, as he attempts to crack the mystery of the unknown noise. And he doesn’t need to look much. It’s right in front of him, the source of the periodic splatters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The liquid is blood, staining the dirty navy carpet of the room he’s in. It has a certain heaviness to it, seeping into the fabric. Bokuto lifts his head, as much as he can. The blood is coming from an open, gaping wound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost like a pair of red lips. The open wound is on the neck, staring back at Bokuto. It doesn’t belong to any familiar face. Bokuto thanks the gods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto doesn’t attempt to run. Even without moving his limbs, he knows he’s restrained. Rope eats into his skin with every twitch, covering all but his face. He can see, and talk. Neither help him enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remains unmoving, as footsteps come from a clear direction. To the left. There’s one person, walking down the hallway. Aside from that, everything is painfully silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bokuto Koutarou-kun.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An unfamiliar voice. He only shifts his eyes, to take in the view of the man’s face. It’s a man, who, at one glance, Bokuto knows it’s who kidnapped him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand is on Bokuto’s shoulder. He jolts inadvertently, tightening the ropes clenching around his body. They seem to have a life of their own, vile snakes constricting its prey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto is prey. He’s going to be eaten, by the predator eyeing him up and down. He doesn’t know what he’ll be, exactly. Perhaps a plaything, or a bag full of sand. Or a lump of flesh, emptied of his blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be a good boy, won’t you?” The man’s voice. Bokuto hears it again, this time closer. “I’m sorry for scaring you with that thing. It just wouldn’t stop struggling, so I had to make it shut up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto is oddly calm, as he listens to his potential fate. He nods once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With every passing week, Bokuto feels his muscles waste away. His skin is permanently marked with bruises and rope marks, and his entire body is screaming from stress and pain. His internal organs beg him to get away. He would do anything to please them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets used to his new normal. He’s sometimes handled like a porcelain tea set, carefully with minimal pain. He’s called names that are anything but his own. He’s family and friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other times, he’s a vessel for pain and anger. He’s cut up and thrown around, until he feels like he’s about to split apart. Like a paper doll, he rips and burns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto still doesn’t know what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He knows what he isn’t. The son of his parents. The lover of his boyfriend. The best spiker to ever touch a ball. The movements ingrained into him are forgotten. His muscles have amnesia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rips away his own memories by force. Keeping them does him no good. Every thought he has of Akaashi and his family makes him want to wallow. Crying won’t change his situation for the better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Food is offered to him. Its texture is like thin porridge, and Bokuto doesn’t let himself be imaginative. Unless he vomits, it can’t be something awful for him. And his own assumptions play a part in whether he can keep food down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a good boy. You eat what’s offered to you, and don’t talk back. Probably the best pet I’ve ever had.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The praise doesn’t move Bokuto in the slightest. He clenches his jaw. He’s still himself, what he claims to be. He can’t be taken away from himself. He’ll never become mindless for the sake of his safety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, he repeats to himself. He’s not complacent. Far from it, really. He’s bitten off enough shards from his plates to cut his ropes. The only problem is that he’s never left the room. It’s all he has now, and the window has been long since bricked off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He counts every day in his head. He traces the kanji for his friends’ names into his palm, keeping himself alert. He pulls every mathematical formula he can remember from the wrinkles of his brain. Without new input, he needs to stimulate himself so that the predictability of his day won’t kill him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto knows the room inside and out. He can’t stand, but he can shift inch by inch to survey the room, while nobody is with him. He knows the cracks in the walls and the movement of the belongings on the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes glide across the floor. Something white and rectangular covers a patch of the carpet. He bends down to pick it up with his teeth, and drops it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A photo. It’s someone he hasn’t seen in ages. His face seems a little different from the picture painted in his memory, but it’s him. Akaashi Keiji, his lover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon becomes right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you take these off for me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto pleads, displaying a smile he used to pull off so effortlessly. His hands are bound tight. The lack of circulation has turned his skin into a strange shade of red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I don’t know if I can trust you.” The man says. “If I let your hands loose, you might try to escape.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto’s mouth hurts. The shards are cutting into his tongue, the inside of his mouth. Talking with them inside his mouth is difficult. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aww. I just wanted a hug.” He pouts, vaguely remembering how he used to flirt with Akaashi. It makes him want to vomit, to use the same tone with someone he doesn’t even know the name of. But all of it is for Akaashi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It goes to plan. He feels arms around him. More importantly, he has a full view of the pale neck in front of him. It’s Bokuto’s one and only chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans back, and opens his mouth. He slams his head into the man’s neck, biting into the skin and flesh. He tastes blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a scream, and a watery gurgle. Bokuto pulls back quickly, keeping a porcelain shard in between his teeth to work on the rope binding his hands. His mouth tastes of his own blood, and someone else’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A laugh escapes Bokuto, as he spits the shards onto the ground. The man is trying to say something, but he doesn’t understand. If he can still make noises, he hasn’t done enough. He doesn’t want his taste of freedom to leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re scum!” Bokuto yells, grabbing the bedside table. He can’t be tied up again. He swings the table, and a crack echoes in the room. “People like you should die! Go to hell!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto continues to violently hit the predator, moving his arms in a wild frenzy. He’s not so much a predator now, in Bokuto’s hands like an insignificant insect. He doesn’t know how hard he’s hitting, until he notices there’s no more groaning and gurgling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Bokuto had gone overboard. He sees his hands, trembling as he drops the table. There’s no more movement or breathing, only the blood seeping into the navy carpet. Dripping from the jagged hole in the throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to go home.” Bokuto murmurs, clenching his fists. There’s still that wretched photo of Akaashi on the floor. He takes one last look at it, before turning his back to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone must be scared for him. And they’ll be even more scared, seeing him and his body. He’ll have to work extra hard to pick up his shape. He wonders if Akaashi still thinks about him with love. He’s counted. It’s been months. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Bokuto reaches for the doorknob, tears dripping down onto the carpet. “Why did I have to get broken?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His cries become louder, as he steps outside. Just like the first day of his kidnapping, everything is quiet. Only his own sobbing and footsteps echo in the hallway. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. KuroKen: Collar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Collar, in a metaphorical sense.</p><p>There's not necessarily only one.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warnings/tags:</p><p>unhealthy relationship, codependency, vomiting, failed suicide attempt, overdose, anxiety attacks. </p><p>although it's not exactly intentional, there's controlling behaviour.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The collar had been fit around Kuroo’s neck, just after his first year of university. </p><p>Kuroo was a set of dominoes, laid out and standing up on unstable ground. One hard shove away from crumbling. The scales had broken, weighed down by responsibility and despair and a desire to escape. And so, he had tried to escape. </p><p>The empty bottle of caffeine pills hadn’t made it to the trash can. </p><p>His throat had burned, as every single pill evacuated itself from his stomach. And when there was no more, blood. Awareness was there, as control faded out. His eyes didn’t move where he wanted them to. </p><p>He had thought it was the end. The pain certainly felt like death’s shadow, but there was no sign of his alertness disappearing. He could hear, but not comprehend. </p><p>Kuroo’s mind had been pushed back to a state unlike himself. He didn’t know the purpose of a syringe, or why everyone was dressed in white. Words came out in garbled half-syllables, if he could adjust the shape of his mouth to form them in groans. </p><p>He screamed, almost every hour. He didn’t want to be moved. One push of his hand would lock it up, stiff and excruciating. Vowels left his open mouth, coming from his ruined throat. </p><p>It was clear he wasn’t going to die. But he almost wished otherwise. Ice chips would soothe his dry mouth, but no water could enter his system. The poison had left his body, and his eyes darted around the room to read any text around him. </p><p>Good. He could still read. Drool left his mouth uncontrollably, cheeks wet with tears. His muscles seemed to be individually out to torture him. Drinking one mouthful of milk and two mouthfuls of soup without vomiting was a good day. And when he wasn’t vomiting, he was dry retching. </p><p>His discharge from the hospital took place approximately three years ago. </p><p>Kuroo’s attempt at his own life had terrified Kenma. Even if he stayed with him until the end of time, Kuroo probably wouldn’t ever understand the fear he’d felt, seeing him unable to speak or understand what was going on. </p><p>So terrified, that he’d vowed to keep him within reaching distance. He earned enough to support them both. And while Kuroo had no intention to go through hell again, he didn’t find a reason to refuse. </p><p>Kuroo can count on one hand the times he’s left the house. It’s equal parts fear and the desire to keep Kenma’s fears at bay. The life outside is too vibrant, too overpowering for him. Stepping outside of his comfortable home is terrifying. </p><p>“Kuro, I’m going to buy some groceries. I’ll be back soon.” </p><p>Kenma strokes his hair, handing him a soft kitten keychain as a reminder of himself. As long as Kuroo has something to hold onto, he can handle being apart from his life support. He smiles, and cups his hands. </p><p>It’s a crisp day. The blue watercolour sky stretches past the roof, clouds passing by without a glance. Kuroo pushes a window open, and inhales. The air is cool, and carries a hint of the city with it. </p><p>Kuroo makes his way to the sliding door, and opens it. He sits on the edging strip, basking in the soft sunlight. It feels nice to taste the wind. </p><p>The garden is reasonably sized, large flat rocks making a path to a rectangular planter. It’s unused. Only soil sits inside patiently, waiting for something to germinate. </p><p>Kuroo crouches down, staring. As if he’s waiting, too. For a catalyst. A driving force that wedges into his mundane, peaceful life. </p><p>He loses track of time. The clock handles fly like arrows, passing by like beams of light. His hair sways, much like a calligraphy brush dipped in ink. His eyes are closed, senses slowly melting into the landscape. </p><p>Everyday clatter doesn’t reach Kuroo’s ears, neither does Kenma’s voice calling out his name. He senses footsteps behind him, and turns around. Kenma is running to him. </p><p>“Kuro!” </p><p>Kenma’s hair is disheveled, as if a bird had nested in it. His cheeks are flushed. He’s panting, hands reaching out to Kuroo in an uncalculated motion. </p><p>Kuroo flinches, when Kenma’s hands grab his shoulders and pull him into an embrace. It’s short, as Kenma pulls back to stare right into Kuroo’s face. </p><p>“Kenma, why are you crying?” </p><p>Tears drip from Kenma’s eyes, like droplets of maple sap. “Don’t go away where I can’t see you, Kuro. Don’t leave my line of sight.” He sobs. </p><p>“Hey, I’m right here.” Kuroo pats Kenma’s back with soft taps. The last thing he wants is to make Kenma feel the same way he felt after his overdose. It’s not often that Kenma cries. </p><p>“Don’t go away. Stay with me, Kuro. Forever.” Kenma tightens the collar, his words squeezing Kuroo. Taking him away from everything that’s horrible and sharp. He’s surrounded with round corners. </p><p>Kuroo walks back inside the house, Kenma beside him. “I was just in the garden. I wasn’t going to go any further. I’d never leave you.” His steps press against the wooden floor, marking his presence beside Kenma’s. </p><p>“Promise?” Kenma wipes his eyes. The grocery store bags are placed haphazardly beside the table. Some packets of meat and tofu are sticking out from the plastic.</p><p>“I promise, Kenma. Now, come on. Let’s put away the food before it all goes bad.” </p><p>They make stir-fried pork and vegetables. Kuroo’s culinary skills have improved, from the many months he’s spent making meals. So that he won’t feel like a liability, but someone who brings something worthy to the table. </p><p>“Sorry for freaking out, Kuro.” Kenma murmurs, picking at his food with his chopsticks. Kuroo nods quietly. It isn’t often that Kenma loses control. Now that he’s back in control, his past actions wash over him like a wave pool. </p><p>Kuroo reaches out to ruffle Kenma’s hair. “It’s okay. I just… Kenma, I know you were upset because you didn’t know where I was. But I’m never outside the house or the garden.” He explains, attempting to settle him. “So don’t worry, okay?” </p><p>“I can’t help being scared, Kuro.” Kenma frowns. “You know that.” </p><p>With a sigh, Kuroo rubs his temples. “I know. Hey, why don’t we plant something in the garden? That planter’s never been used.” He suggests. If he has a reason to go into the garden more often, it won’t worry Kenma when he slips out of the house. </p><p>“Okay.” </p><p>Three weeks pass. Kuroo hasn’t left the house, aside from watering the lily and carnation saplings in the planter. He hasn’t had a bad case of anxiety in months. He can eat most foods without doubling over in pain. </p><p>But Kenma insists on keeping him under his wing, where he can supervise him. When his knee-jerk reaction to Kuroo asking for less supervision is a visibly hurt one, Kuroo almost feels awful for him. </p><p>Kuroo knows he’s capable of more. Even if he’s not ready to return to college, he can start slow and take trips to nearby shops and parks. He has it in him to get better. Surely Kenma wants to see his old self. </p><p>Kuroo decides to surprise Kenma, by making him dinner himself. </p><p>Kenma is streaming. The streams take up to an hour, and Kuroo knows he won’t be anywhere near the kitchen. He knows he can do it. He used to be the one who could cook, before he’d gone to college. </p><p>The internet is useful, Kuroo thinks. He’s been able to find a recipe that can be made with the seemingly random assortments of food in the fridge. And it’s a recipe just unhealthy enough for Kenma to enjoy. </p><p>He hums, chopping up and marinating some chicken. He starts preparing to fry them in the pan. He pours some oil in, waiting a little until it starts to bubble. He places them in carefully, until three or four are cracking and spitting inside the oil. </p><p>Kuroo isn’t stupid enough to throw things in hot oil carelessly. But he had cared too less, as one of the chicken pieces slipped from his grasp at an awkward angle. A splash, and a searing hot pain on his hand. He had burned himself. </p><p>“Fuck.” Kuroo murmurs, resisting the urge to cup his hand. He dashes over to the sink, splashing water over his reddening hand. It doesn’t seem serious as he thought. The pain is irritating, but he can push through it to make the rest of dinner. </p><p>He lets out a sigh, rubbing his temples. Silently thanking the gods that he doesn’t play volleyball anymore, he continues to fry the chicken. This time, he wears oven gloves. </p><p>Just as Kuroo is finishing up, footsteps approach the doorway. “What are you doing?” Kenma pops his head inside the door frame, headphones on his neck. Kuroo throws up a peace sign, and points to the food laid out on the table. </p><p>“I was making some dinner.” Kuroo beams, proud of his creation. He had even managed to wash up as he went along. </p><p>“I know. I could smell it, so I cut the stream short.” Kenma smiles at him, sitting at the table. “Thanks for the food, Kuro.” </p><p>Kuroo feels his heart warm up. He’s not a burden. He still has a chance to function in society. There’s plenty of things he can pursue at his age. He won’t leech off his boyfriend forever. </p><p>“You can compliment the chef later.” Kuroo jokes, reaching for a piece of fried chicken with his chopsticks. He pops it into his mouth with a forkful of salad. The juicy flavours burst in his mouth, and he considers a career in the culinary industry. </p><p>“There was this commenter in today’s stream…” Kenma starts a conversation, as part of their usual routine. He trails off, when he notices the reddened patch of skin on Kuroo’s hand. “What happened to you, Kuro? Did you get injured?” </p><p>Kuroo doesn’t think much of it, not noticing the shift in Kenma’s tone. “I just had a little accident when I was cooking. I’m okay now.” He says assuredly. Kenma doesn’t return his smile. </p><p>“I don’t want you cooking anymore.” Kenma says quietly. </p><p>“What?!” Kuroo exclaims, indignant. “You can’t just ban me from cooking, Kenma! I already don’t do enough. I don’t want to be useless.” </p><p>There’s a distinct sadness in Kenma’s eyes, as he opens his mouth. “You got hurt while I wasn’t looking. I just feel like it’s my fault.” He takes Kuroo’s hand, and inspects it. “Does it hurt?” </p><p>Kuroo shakes his head quickly. “It’s not serious. I won’t even need medicine. It’ll hardly leave a mark.” He can’t let his few purposes be taken from him. When he becomes truly nothing, he’ll only suffer. </p><p>Kenma takes his time, before nodding. “Okay. But we’re getting an air fryer. That way, you won’t get hurt again.” </p><p>It’s a good enough compromise, Kuroo thinks. “That’s good. You’ll let me do this again, right?” he says, ignoring that he’s asking permission for the simplest of things. He just feels obligated to. </p><p>In daily life, Kuroo doesn’t want many things. What he wants, he usually already has. And he has to be careful of what he expresses his want for. Kenma will get it for him, without any questions. </p><p>Oddly, Kuroo wishes it were harder for him to obtain what he wants. He craves working for what he wants. If he could somehow leave the house, that would be a start. And find a way to express his want for freedom, without making Kenma feel like he’s doing a bad job. Kuroo knows more than anyone else that he’s trying. </p><p>“Did you hear about the summer festival going on, Kenma?” </p><p>Kuroo brings up the topic casually, but it’s no use. He’s seen through straight away. </p><p>“You want to go, don’t you?” Kenma says, without lifting his head from his phone. “But you haven’t been anywhere in ages. You’re going to feel unwell.” </p><p>“I can try. Please, let me.” Kuroo begs. He doesn’t know when else a chance like this will come. There’s an hourglass inside him, and although he doesn’t know what it stands for, he knows there’s not much left in him. Something is tightening around his neck. </p><p>Kenma is reluctant, but gives him the ok signal after Kuroo’s incessant pleading. Although it seems like he had just cracked in the moment, as the days go by, Kuroo observes him making casual statements about looking forward to the festival. </p><p>They wear their everyday clothes, and surprisingly, they blend in. Not everyone is wearing a yukata, and even those wearing it aren’t necessarily wearing geta on their feet. Kuroo remembers his feet hurting from the fabric straps as a child. </p><p>The atmosphere rouses childhood excitement inside Kuroo. Everything he’d expected is there, from the overpriced food to the trademark festival commodities. He can hear festive music from a distance. It’s most likely from a speaker, but it’s still special. </p><p>“Here.” Kenma hands Kuroo his shaved ice, topped with red strawberry syrup. He’s quite sure he’s read somewhere that they all taste the same, but just smell and look different. Kenma is oblivious to his internal monologue, biting into his candied apple. </p><p>The shaved ice is good, but the cold dessert threatens to assault his stomach, so Kuroo decides to get some yakisoba. Kenma settles for mini castella cakes, staying away from any savoury foods. </p><p>“It’s been a while since I’ve been anywhere with this many people.” Kuroo says, grabbing the yakisoba noodles with his chopsticks. The vegetables and the red ginger go well together with the brown sauce. </p><p>Kuroo can’t talk to anyone besides Kenma, but he can stand around people as long as he’s not alone. Being outside, away from his home, is terrifying. It had taken him an embarrassing amount of time to step out of the car. But now, he’s gotten used to the atmosphere. </p><p>“We should buy something to bring home. Like a souvenir.” Kuroo’s mind flashes back to when they were kids, and they would scoop bouncy balls at summer festivals. Their parents had told them they couldn’t scoop any goldfish, but bouncy balls were all right. </p><p>Kuroo wonders where the bouncy balls he’d collected from the years are. Probably somewhere in his bedroom, at his old home. He’s on his feet, looking for the one stand among many others. </p><p>He drifts away from Kenma, just for a moment. He’ll only take a few steps. He can wave at him from the stand. He leaves Kenma’s side, walking in the opposite direction. He can see Kenma’s hoodie. </p><p>Kuroo smiles. He’s done it. His first steps to independence. A taste of freedom, something he’d almost forgotten about. He turns around, to check where he’s standing. </p><p>“...Kenma?” </p><p>Kuroo’s eyes dart around, panicked. He’s standing around, in the middle of the pathway. Kenma is nowhere to be found. He’d seen him just a moment ago. There’s so many people, none of them looking like Kenma. His stomach twists itself in knots. </p><p>“Oh god,  Kenma.” </p><p>Kuroo’s legs tremble, giving way in a pathetic amount of time. His throat whistles. All of a sudden, he can’t breathe. His ears are filled with water. </p><p>“Oi, you’re in the way.” Someone he doesn’t know nudges him. Kuroo flinches, letting out a sharp gasp. “What’s wrong with you?” </p><p>Kuroo doesn’t know how to speak. His breathing is shallow and erratic, shoulders heaving with every inhale. Stand up, he pleads his legs. He needs to get away. He feels sick. </p><p>He stands up, and takes two steps backwards. He scans the crowd desperately for Kenma. His racing heart pushes against his throat. He presses his hand against his mouth. </p><p>“Oh, crap. Are you all right? Say something.” </p><p>There’s a hand extended to Kuroo. He doesn’t know how to take it. He doesn’t know how to accept help from someone who’s not Kenma. He can’t be dependent. He staggers, coughing into his palm. </p><p>Tears prick at Kuroo’s eyes. His stomach spasms, forcing something up his throat. Vomit splatters beneath him, burning and painful. Everything hurts. He can only sob, hands shaking in front of him. </p><p>“I think there’s something wrong with him. Why is he here?” </p><p>Kuroo can hear everything. He’s abnormal, disgusting, a human failure. Concern and contempt blend together, piercing through him. There are too many eyes, rolling from side to side. </p><p>Soft hands pull him back, to a place with less people. A familiar scent floats around him, calming him. “Kuro, I was looking everywhere.” Kenma says, voice trembling with worry. “Why did you disappear?” </p><p>Kuroo’s eyes blink out tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Kenma.” He clings to Kenma tightly, hanging onto his sense of comfort. “I want to go home. I don’t want to be here anymore.” </p><p>Kenma squeezes him tightly. “See, Kuro? I’m the only one who can protect you. I’m the only one who understands you fully. You know now.” Every word staples itself into Kuroo’s heart. </p><p>Kuroo nods. Nobody will treat him like Kenma does. They’ll all treat him like a nuisance or a poor little thing. Only Kenma will bring him comfort and keep him calm. He depends on Kenma for survival. </p><p>“Let’s go back home. It’s okay, Kuro. I’ll protect you.” </p><p>The promise rings inside Kuroo’s head. He’s already beginning to forget why he wanted freedom, when Kenma can childproof his entire world. He won’t ever have any terrifying eyes staring at him. </p><p>It’s what he wants, of course. As his desire for independence chips away, he locks himself deeper into his safe, warm world. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. IwaOi: Forced to Their Knees</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>By sickness.</p><p>tags: vomiting, sickfic, hurt/comfort</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hiii uhm so the reason for the delay is because a family member has covid and it was a stressful time getting tested and stuff. I'm trying my best but I'm probably going to be skipping some days or something.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Everything is burning. And for once, Oikawa isn’t exaggerating. He feels like the world is actually on fire, but no. The only thing doing that is his own body, which is arguably the same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d finished his report the day before, thank goodness. But that relief does little to help the pain in his… everything. It all feels awful, from his head to his stomach. He hopes he won’t have to throw up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to finish my assignment soon. I’ll be free in a few hours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iwaizumi had said to him, and retreated back into their room to focus on his work. And Oikawa had smiled and waved, ignoring the strange ache in his stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten minutes after, Oikawa’s head had started feeling warm. And when another ten minutes had passed, he was certain he had a fever. There was nothing he could do except curl up and wait for it to pass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After an hour, Oikawa is certain the sickness isn’t going to pass. It’s worsening, for certain. He can feel the queasiness in his stomach pushing and pulling, his breathing hot against his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to go to Iwaizumi, and cling to him for comfort. But he’s busy with his college assignment, and had respected Oikawa’s space when he was cramming words into his report. Oikawa can’t disturb him just because he’s feeling under the weather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oikawa grabs a blanket and drapes it over himself, curling against it to get whatever warmth he can out of it. Sleeping on the sofa isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s the softest surface he can lie against. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A groan slips past his lips. Drops of sweat begin to gather on his skin, and a shiver passes through his spine. His upper stomach feels like it’s being stabbed with a blunt object. Tears begin to form in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dizzy feeling in his head presses against his eyes, until it begins to hurt. Before he can do anything about it, it develops into an awful headache. It spreads into his eye sockets and down into his jaw. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face against the cushion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oikawa wants to cry. His condition has worsened exponentially in a matter of minutes. His stomach is gurgling painfully, and his head pounds periodically, different from his usual migraines. He can barely move without his head swimming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He attempts to get down from the sofa, and the moment his feet touch the ground, something shifts in his stomach. A dry heave escapes him, leaving his stomach cramped and sore. He crawls onto the floor, still tangled in the blanket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The trip to the bedroom seems too long, as he drags his feet across the ground. The door is right in front of him. The sudden overwhelming urge to cry strikes him. He’s going to disturb Iwaizumi and ruin his grades. He’s an awful boyfriend. His head hurts so much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa calls out, pushing the door open slightly. He sees the back of Iwaizumi’s head, as he works away at his laptop. A stabbing pain in his stomach makes him whimper and crumple onto the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whether it’s Oikawa’s miserable voice or the thump that gave him away, Iwaizumi stops what he’s doing. He turns around, and sees the normally sturdy Oikawa in a heap on the ground. “Oi, what’s wrong?” He tears himself out of his seat, making a run towards him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a moment of acknowledgement for Oikawa, and he breaks. “I feel really unwell,” he sobs, as Iwaizumi puts his hand on his forehead. “My head hurts. And my stomach.” He leans into the touch, not needing to play up his symptoms like he sometimes does. He’s actually sick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, you’re sick. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Iwaizumi’s voice is rough, in contrast to his tender touches. Oikawa only manages another choked sob, which resonates like a steel ball banging against his head. His skin is boiling, and he still can’t stop shivering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. Didn’t want to disturb you.” Oikawa sniffles, hugging Iwaizumi to keep him within reach. He’s on his knees, barely able to stand up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iwaizumi picks up the blanket tangled around Oikawa’s limbs, and wraps him up. “I wasn’t trying to blame you, idiot.” He lifts him onto their shared bed, pulling the covers up over his warm body. “Sleep it off for a bit. You probably have a fever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t,” Oikawa whines, wrapping his arm around his stomach. “I feel nauseous and my head really hurts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iwaizumi huffs, stroking Oikawa’s hair. “I’ll get some painkillers for you. Try not to puke until I come back, if you can.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves the room, and Oikawa shifts on the bed with a groan. His stomach feels bloated, despite the lack of food put into it. An airy burp escapes him, worsening the sickly feeling in his stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still feeling crappy?” Iwaizumi asks, coming back into the room with a plastic basin and a glass of water. “If you feel like throwing up, you should probably take care of that before having any medicine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oikawa nods, keeping the basin within a safe distance. His stomach tugs at him, gurgling ominously. “I feel sick, but I don’t know if I can throw up. I just feel queasy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand is on his back, rubbing firmly up and down. “You won’t feel good if you’re just sitting there nauseous all day.” Iwaizumi says, and Oikawa lets out a hiccup in response. “Try and get it up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how to.” Oikawa holds the basin, wishing he could hurry up and get the nausea out of his stomach. His stomach is queasy and bloated enough to make him burp a couple of times, but nothing more happens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iwaizumi hands him a glass of water. “Have a drink. I’ll press on your stomach, maybe that’ll help.” He suggests, and Oikawa gulps. Iwaizumi’s sheer strength would probably make all of his internal organs rise to his mouth. The mental image isn’t very pleasant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oikawa gulps down the water, and immediately feels a change in his body. His stomach is trying to reject it. A wet belch passes through his lips, and Iwaizumi pats his back to try and coax more out of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, Oikawa. It’ll be over soon.” Iwaizumi says, hand slipping down to press on his stomach. “Get it all out, okay?” He gives a few comforting rubs, before applying enough pressure to make Oikawa gag. He doesn’t throw up, but comes close to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oikawa shivers underneath the blankets, waiting for the inevitable to happen. “Fuck,” he spits into the basin, shoulders rising and falling. His stomach feels like it’s being churned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iwaizumi presses inwards on Oikawa’s stomach, moving his hand upwards. That combined with a firm rub on his back seems to have done the trick. A gurgle comes from Oikawa’s throat, and a splash of vomit lands into the basin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oikawa lets out a shaky breath. Another wave of nausea makes his stomach clench, and he feels the vomit rise to his throat. Iwaizumi pats his back gently as he pukes, urging him to get everything out of his system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s all right. I’ve got you.” Iwaizumi holds him as he throws up, stroking his hair. Oikawa sniffles, gagging once and vomiting a thin stream of liquid. His mouth feels disgusting, and his stomach heaves even when there’s nothing left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iwaizumi offers him a glass of water, to rinse out his mouth. Once he gets rid of the bitter aftertaste, he feels a little less awful. His stomach feels empty, and although his headache is still there, he feels marginally better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanna sleep, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa murmurs, curling up into the pillow. He feels Iwaizumi’s hand on his head, stroking his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes, knowing Iwaizumi is there for him. He’s okay. He’ll feel better soon, and he’ll ask for as much attention he can squeeze out of him. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. BokuAka: "Stop, Please"</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Akaashi doesn't know why he hurts himself. He can't always explain his thoughts to himself. </p><p>tags: self harm</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hiiii hi, I skipped a few days bc I felt stressed over my parents getting covid n stuff and couldnt really focus on writing. I hope you like this!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sometimes, Akaashi does things to himself without knowing why. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know why he hurts himself, when he doesn’t enjoy the pain and shame that comes after it. He doesn’t know why he keeps doing it, despite knowing it doesn’t help him. He doesn’t know why he’s making exceptions for himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had started off as a distraction. He would dig his nails into his skin, feeling relief from the pressure and the marks that would fade with time. It was only through coincidence that it had escalated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Akaashi doesn’t consider himself addicted. He may have a few scratches on his stomach and his inner thighs, but that’s under control, like everything else in his life. He makes sure that they won’t scar, so that there’s no lasting damage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, it was somehow a normal part of life for him. Waking up, getting through the day, turning his pain into something physical, sleeping. They only sting when his clothes rub against it the day after, and when the shower hits his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most important of all, he doesn’t let it affect volleyball. Which is his utmost priority. If his bad habits don’t interfere with volleyball, they can’t be that bad. He’s not coming into school with his hands injured or under the influence of anything. He can still set. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crap, Akaashi! Get it!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A ball comes hurtling towards Akaashi, from an angle he’d least expected. He puts his arms out to get it, but it’s too late. It slams into his stomach, right into a fresh wound. He lets out a short sound of pain, doubling over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bokuto! You killed Akaashi!” Konoha yells, and Akaashi doesn’t have the composure to tell him that he’s still alive. He wants to slip out quietly, but the entire team’s attention is on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gaah! I’m sorry! Akaashi, don’t die!” Bokuto slides under the net, dashing over to Akaashi. He notices him cradling his stomach, and the blood seeping into his uniform. “You’re hurt! I’m so sorry, Akaashi. Do you need the hospital?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Akaashi shakes his head as hard as he can. “I’m okay. I can handle it myself.” He turns away from Bokuto, before anyone else can see his blood. It’s not Bokuto’s doing. It’s his own fault. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After checking that Bokuto and the others aren’t following him, he retreats quickly into the club room. Yukie and Kaori offer to help him, but he adamantly refuses it, assuring them he’ll be fine on his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the club room, he gently lifts his shirt, wincing. Splotches of red colour his skin, and he absentmindedly worries about getting the stain out. A realization crushes him. He’s let his habit affect practice. He’s inconvenienced Bokuto. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Akaashi digs his nails into the wound, eyes watering from frustration. He sobs into the back of his hand. He can feel his breathing come quick and shallow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his panicked state, he doesn’t notice Bokuto coming inside, until he feels his presence right behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, Akaashi? What’s going on?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Akaashi hides his stomach without a second to waste, but it’s too late. He’s acted too suspicious. There’s no way Bokuto hadn’t seen the numerous injuries on his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look on Bokuto’s face says it all. His eyes instantly lose all of their shine, which Akaashi didn’t know was possible until now. His mouth is curved into a frown. “Please tell me it’s not what it looks like, Akaashi.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s an uncomfortable silence between them. Akaashi opens his mouth, but only a ragged gasp comes out. “Bokuto-san. I think it would be good if you forgot you ever saw me like this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Akaashi’s being impossible. There’s no way Bokuto will leave him alone after this. He’s going to ask him why he’s doing it, how long it’s been going on for, what will make him stop. And he’s not ready for any of those questions. He hadn’t been prepared for his secret to come out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I can’t, Akaashi. We should at least bandage that. You’re bleeding.” Bokuto says quietly, turning around to look for the first aid kit. Akaashi’s eyes water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop, please. I don’t need help. I won’t let it affect volleyball.” Akaashi rambles, sobbing. “I don’t let it scar. I’m not sick. Please, don’t ask any more.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto’s arms are around him, warm and comforting. He’s like a protective blanket of kindness. One he doesn’t deserve. It’s quiet, and Akaashi can hear his sobs seeping into Bokuto’s chest. His head and throat hurts from crying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not worried about volleyball. I’m worried about you.” Bokuto pulls away. “I don’t know why you’re hurting yourself, but I can’t help worrying. You’re important to me, so I don’t want to see you hurt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to try and stop me?” Akaashi asks, hesitantly. He can see the pain in Bokuto’s eyes, and a flash of guilt hits him. It intensifies when he realizes it probably won’t stop him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto shakes his head. “I can’t do that, can I? I don’t know why you’re hurting yourself. How can I stop you without knowing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Akaashi hadn’t expected that answer. He falls silent, biting his lip. He suddenly feels smaller than ever. “...I don’t know either, Bokuto-san.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know why he keeps doing it. He’s not bullied. He has a good home life. The practice hours are reasonable. He doesn’t know why he feels compelled to hurt himself. He just does, in a way nobody understands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe if we find out, we can look for ways to help you.” Bokuto places a hand in Akaashi’s hair, and ruffles it gently. “Talk to me, Akaashi. When you get home, call me. And you can tell me about your day and I’ll tell you about mine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A short sob escapes Akaashi. He sniffs, drying his eyes. “You’re not disappointed, Bokuto-san?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should be, Akaashi thinks. He’s broken down crying because of a problem he doesn’t even fully understand. He’s dumped everything onto Bokuto, who had only expected him to be mildly injured. He doesn’t know why he feels so upset. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You deserve help, Akaashi. You just seemed so downcast lately. You laugh at my jokes and get excited during matches, but you look like… you’re not really there. Like you’re a whole galaxy away.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Akaashi nods. Bokuto had seen it all, without him saying anything. Akaashi had assumed he was good at hiding things. Bokuto is too perceptive for his own good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what it is, Bokuto-san. I just don’t feel good lately. I don’t understand.” Tears roll down his cheeks again, as he explains himself in sobs. Bokuto didn’t need to ask. He’s the one oversharing like an idiot. “I have nothing to be sad about. I don’t—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto shushes Akaashi gently. “You don’t need to find a reason. Akaashi, you’re really smart and logical and everything. But you can’t reason out your feelings. Don’t be mad at yourself for having feelings you can’t explain away.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a chuckle, Bokuto wipes away Akaashi’s tears. Akaashi stares at him, dazed. He doesn’t understand. Bokuto delivers simply. Yet it feels like he’s going far beyond what Akaashi can understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not dealing with it yourself anymore. I’m gonna be here, okay?” Bokuto pats Akaashi’s shoulder, squeezing him close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Akaashi silently leans into Bokuto, closing his eyes. “We should go back to practice. I’m sorry I interrupted like this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto hums a no, urging Akaashi to stop apologizing. “It’s okay. You’re trying hard enough, Akaashi. You don’t need to push yourself that far.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bokuto’s words have the power to take the edge off his pain. Akaashi hadn’t realized how much he was hurting, until Bokuto had offered him relief. And now, he wants nothing more than to cling to it. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Kunimi: Trail of Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warnings: mentions of children being sold with no specifications as to what happens to them. </p><p>I'm stressed and I'm being tested for covid yet again so uh. please bear with me</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Every footstep is heavier than the last, as Kunimi drags his feet through the snow. His feet are bare and frostbitten, but if he stops, he’ll freeze to death. So he pushes on, trying not to cry. It’ll sap his energy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach hurts. He’d landed hard on a rock while running from danger, and had lost Kindaichi on the way. Now he’s alone, leaving bloody droplets in the snow. He can’t afford to blot it away and cover it with more snow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shiver passes through Kunimi’s body. This is his end, he thinks. Most of his life was miserable, thanks to his parents selling him to keep themselves fed. He had finally made a friend and escaped, which had gone horribly wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes water. There’s not much he can remember that makes him happy. He can only hope that Kindaichi has made it to safety. If there’s nobody to help him, he hopes it’s because they’re helping Kindaichi. He’s the sweetest person Kunimi has ever met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunimi wonders how many kids like him there are. His country has been torn apart ever since the war started. Lower-class, poor citizens had been hit the worst, and many chose to abandon their children at buyers’ houses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His leg gives out, and he crashes down into the snow heavily. His injury throbs worse than ever, taking a bunch of damage from the fall. He sobs silently, fingers growing cold and numb. It hurts. He wants to go to sleep, but if he does, he won’t wake up again. Somehow, he knows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A drop of snow falls onto his hand. He feels it on his forehead, too. It melts on his icy skin, rolling away as a streak of water. The snow underneath him turns red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunimi’s thoughts turn into memories, flashing by him one by one. It’s the closest thing to his life flashing before his eyes. He begins feeling warm, and he knows he’s about to die. And he’s alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, are you awake? Can you hear me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunimi flinches, when large hands lift him up from the ground. He’s in someone’s arms, and he curls against the warmth despite his instincts. They’re brushing off the snow on his back and hair, holding him tightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” Kunimi whispers into the stranger. He hopes he won’t get taken back to be sold again. He can’t see the person’s face while he’s in his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Oikawa Tooru. I’m going to take you somewhere safe, all right?” Oikawa pats his head, hugging him close to warm him up. Kunimi feels some of the colour return to his cheeks. Oikawa’s coat is fluffy and warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tooru.” Kunimi murmurs, hands cold and stiff. “Am I gonna die?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oikawa’s steps are wide, as he crunches the snow beneath him. “You’re gonna be okay. Just keep talking to me, and don’t close your eyes. Look around.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kunimi wiggles a bit, so that he can see the landscape around him. He can see mountains, and little houses with snow on the rooftops. Looking around, he finds it pretty. He’d never appreciated the beauty of an ordinary village before. He would scoff when Kindaichi pointed out the beauty in things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They get through the village, and walk uphill for a bit. There’s a secluded cottage, with no other houses nearby. Kunimi looks around, and sees a small farm with a stable nearby. A wheelbarrow sits in front of a shed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s get you warmed up, okay?” Oikawa carries him into the house, and Kunimi winces as the pain in his stomach flares back. He lets out a whimper, and Oikawa notices, glancing down at his bloodstained shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My tummy hurts,” Kunimi sobs, pressing his hand to the wound. The blood sticks the fabric to his skin. “Please, help…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oikawa gently lifts the shirt to check the wound. “You’re bleeding a bit. Let’s take care of that, and then we'll get you beside the fireplace.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes Kunimi to the bathroom, opening up an old medical kit and taking out some bandages. “It’s going to sting, so brace for it.” Oikawa dabs a cloth in a bowl of water, pressing it to Kunimi’s wound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow!” Kunimi hisses at the searing pain, gripping at his shirt. He trembles as Oikawa cleans out his injury and bandages it, until the white bandage has covered up the redness and jagged wound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, kid. You’ve done well.” Oikawa kisses his forehead gently, picking him up to carry him. “You must be really tired. Where did you come from, anyway?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunimi stays silent. He doesn’t know what to say. Maybe Oikawa will react in an undesired way. “I was bought. I ran away.” He mumbles, as Oikawa takes him into the sitting room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fire is going, crackling on the logs it’s been fed. Oikawa sits him down on the rocking chair, at a comfortable distance. “Did you run away alone?” Oikawa asks, as Kunimi wraps himself up on the shawl sitting on the chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My friend was with me. I don’t know where he is now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door creaks open, and a burst of cold air blows in. Another man, looking more gruff than Oikawa, walks in with something slung over his shoulder. Kunimi hops off the chair and crawls into Oikawa’s lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I found a kid in the snow.” The man says, holding the boy with both hands. He’s clearly not used to children. The boy is dangling, and fast asleep. “Who’s that little guy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kunimi hops off Oikawa immediately, grabbing onto the boy. “Kindaichi!” He hugs him tightly. “Is he alive?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Course he is. He’s just weakened.” The man glances at Kunimi with a confused gaze. “Do you guys know each other?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My friend.” Kunimi squeezes Kindaichi like a rag doll, as if to will his consciousness back into him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Oikawa watches the two children stick to each other. They seem to be a package deal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right. Maybe we should give you both a bath.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Come talk to me on Twitter @rainbokuto!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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